


Hot Blooded

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Magic, Romance, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coda to 7.8, "It's Time For A Wedding."</p><p>Dean can't believe that Becky didn't consummate her "marriage" to Sam and gives Sam no end of shit for it.<br/>Sam tries to shut him up with a little poetic justice.<br/>Weirdly romantic fluffiness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Blooded

Dean threw back his head and laughed.

"Seriously?" he sputtered. "Not even once?"

He took one look at Sam's face and burst out laughing again, buckling over the steering wheel. His eyes started to tear and his sides were aching, but goddamn, it was worth it.

Sam didn't say a word, just stared straight ahead, getting pissier and pissier.

Which just made Dean laugh harder.

"I mean," he managed after a minute, biting his lip. "You drove the entire way across the country with her, spent three nights—"

" _Two_ ," said Sam through clenched teeth.

"Two nights in tight little quarters in crappy motels, and what?—like a week squirreled up at her place?—and you mean you never—"

"Dean!" Sam barked. "Jesus. I told you. I didn't sleep with her."

"You mean," Dean snorted, his nose twitching, "that she didn't sleep with you!"

"Whatever," Sam sighed.

Dean cackled: tears were pouring down his cheeks and he could barely see the road, but holy fuck, it was worth it.

"I don't see why this is so funny," Sam huffed.

"Oh come on, Sammy," Dean said, smacking him on the leg. "It's fucking hilarious! A chick who's biggest wish is to be with _you_ , baby—and she doesn't jump your bones even once?! In a week! What the fuck is wrong with you, Sam?"

Sam faced him, glaring, his face a truly awesome shade of red.

"What's wrong with me?! What's wrong with you, asshole? You really wish that Becky had raped me?"

"Oh for," Dean said, exasperated. "It wouldn't have been rape, dude. You totally would have wanted it."

"Because she drugged me!" Sam shouted, banging his hand on the door. "Haven't you ever heard of informed consent? Jesus, Dean, you can't give consent when you're drugged!"

Dean thought about that for a moment. Then he turned back to Sam, leering. "But baby, you would have begged her for it, wouldn't you?” he crooned. “You’da told her just how you like it.”

"I hate you," Sam growled, shoving himself as far away from Dean as he could.

"You're just pissed 'cause I pointed this out," Dean said, smirking into traffic. "Like, hadn't it even occurred to you as being a little weird that she didn’t even try to fuck your brains out? Remember the first time we met her? She couldn't take her hands off you, sport. So what happened?" He grinned wickedly at Sam. "Oh honey," he said, his voice dripping, "why didn't you just tell her that it had never happened to you before? That usually you have no problem getting it up—"

"I. Am going. To kill you," Sam snarled.

Dean looked over, enjoying the epic pout that Sam had going.

"Maybe," he mused, moving into the other lane, "that demon mojo messed with the blood flow to your—“

"Dean!" Sam roared, reaching for him. "I swear to God, I will rip you right out of that seat and throw your ass through the windshield if you do not SHUT UP!"

Dean considered this. Closed his mouth, fixed his eyes straight ahead.

Sam let his breath out in a whoosh and sat back, arms folded across his chest. He glared at the side of Dean's head. Waiting for it.

But Dean was quiet.

He was thinking.

**  
At the motel, Dean kept a firm grip on the remote, lying in wait for his opportunity. He had to sit through the shitty local news and almost all of Brian Williams' goddamn smirking until a shy middle-aged couple popped on screen.

Dean jammed the volume button.

"Viagra lets you choose the right moment!" the TV shouted.

Sam lunged off of the couch with a roar and tackled him. They rolled off the bed, flailing, Sam grabbing for the remote, Dean cackling and holding on for dear life. "If you suffer from erectile dysfunction," the TV bellowed, and Dean curled in on himself, hooting, even as Sam punched him in the side and ripped the remote from under his arm. He rolled over and watched Sam jab fruitlessly at the volume button.

"I took the batteries out, bitch!" he shouted over a Metamucil ad, snorting as Sam stomped over to the ancient TV and yanked the plug from the wall.

It was quiet for a moment.

Then Dean fell on his back, howling. Sam threw the remote at his head, catching him in the temple, but god, it was so worth it for the look on Sammy’s face.

**  
The next night, they were halfway to Baton Rouge to see some contact that Bobby had dug up, an ancient Catholic priest or bishop or something who Bobby thought might know something useful about the Leviathan. Or he might be senile. Kind of a toss up.

Dean yawned and squinted out at the dimly lit road signs. It was late, and they were aiming to catch a few hours’ sleep in Memphis. “Hey, Sam," he said, "could you double check the map? I can’t remember if it’s faster to stay on 40 here or to take the local road into town.”

Sam sighed heavily.

“Seriously?” Dean said. “You’re still pissed? Christ, Sam. What are you, twelve?”

Sam huffed.

“I don’t know about you,” Dean continued, his voice rising, “but I’d like to get at least a little sleep before we pow-wow with the Cryptkeeper. Do you really wanna be driving all night here?”

Sam shook his head, grumbled under his breath.

“What’s that?” Dean growled.

Sam scowled, glaring at Dean in the dark. “Fine!” he said, like he was doing Dean some huge favor.

Which he kinda was.

“Jesus!” Sam squawked as a mountain of Tic-Tacs shot out into his lap, flooding from the glove compartment. They poured down his legs, spilled into his shoes, and puddled noisily under his seat. He picked one up, scowling. They were all blue. Of course.

He turned to Dean, steaming.

Dean smiled back sweetly. "Sammy," he said, "I had no idea your little problem had gotten so serious. But I'm glad you talked to your doctor."

Sam glared at him, shifting, the sounds of a thousand tumbling Tic-Tacs between them. "Dean," he said. "I'm warning you. I'm gonna get you for this."

Dean sighed, shook his head, took the exit for the local road. "Oh Sammy," he said, his grin glittering in the dark. "Be careful. Don't make promises you can't keep."

Sam stewed all the way into Memphis.

But as they pulled into the motel parking lot, it hit him.

Suddenly, he knew _exactly_ how to get back at Dean.

He climbed out of the car, grinning, ignoring the wave of Tic-Tacs that erupted from the front seat.

Dean looked over and smiled. "And you know you're cleaning out your little stash here before we leave tomorrow, right, Ditka?"

Sam nodded, grabbed his backpack. "Ok, Dean," he said cheerfully.

Dean watched him walk towards the front office, listening to the rain of Tic-Tacs on the pavement, and congratulated himself on a dicking over well done.

He never saw it coming.

**  
When they finally got to Baton Rouge, Sam volunteered to go on a supply run.

"Pie," Dean ordered, pointing at him. "Get pie, Sam."

"Sure," Sam said sweetly. "See you later."

He closed the door to their room and bolted back to the car.

He got lucky: the first shop he hit had everything he needed. At the counter, he double-checked his list and gave the clerk a nod. "Yep," he said, smiling. "I'm all set."

The woman looked down at the pile of ingredients, then up into his face. "Are you sure about that, honey?" she asked, amused.

Sam didn't hesitate.

"Oh yeah," he said, patting the counter. "I'm good."

The bill was over a hundred bucks, but damn, Sam thought, sliding back into the car: it was gonna be totally worth it.

He brought Dean a cherry pie AND a pecan pie, and Dean was so dazzled that he didn't notice the lumpy cloth bag under Sam's coat.

**

The tricky part was finding a time to work the damn spell.

He caught a break when Bobby called that night, told them their meeting with Father O’Hanlon was off, for now.

“Said something about a busted catheter,” Bobby had said with a sigh. “He should be up to havin’ visitors in a couple a days. You boys take a breather, and I’ll call you when the old man has his expulsion system back under control.”

“Awesome! And ew,” Dean had said.

And it was cool, to have a couple of days to themselves. The thing was, though, that Sam was ready to go. He'd practiced the incantations in the shower, had almost memorized the instructions he'd downloaded, had conducted a half dozen mental walkthroughs. He was aces.

All he needed was twenty minutes alone in their room.

But the next morning, Dean got lazy, wanted to sleep in, so Sam had to resort to a Starbucks run and a semi-accurate report of a really cute barista over there to lure Dean into the shower and out of the door.

"You said her name's Crystal, right?" Dean asked, his hand on the knob.

"Yeah, dude, she's totally your type. You'll know her when you see her. She's got a ring in her top lip."

Dean went hazy for a second, his eyes happily glazed. "Mmm," he sighed. "Lip rings."

Sam looked pointedly at his watch. "But her shift ends at 10, so you'd better go if you want to—"

Dean hauled ass.

Sam gave it a second, waited to see if Dean had forgotten his wallet or his keys—but the coast was clear.

He got everything set and took a step back, took it all in. Infatuation spell: two days, in and out, 48 hours to fuck with Dean's head. He congratulated himself on the poetic justice of it all: if Dean thought Sam being drugged with a love potion was so fucking hilarious, just wait till he'd been under one for a while.

Admittedly, he was a little leery of using himself as the binder, but he didn't want to miss a minute of what he was sure would be Dean's virtuosity in the role of lovesick bitch. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to inflict his brother’s douchbaggery on anyone else. No, Dean was his problem, and he would make sure that the problem got served. And that there was plenty of photographic evidence after the fact.

He took a deep breath, looked down at the instructions.

"This spell will only work if your beloved already has feelings for you!" they began.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, heard that one before," he said, lighting the sage bundle.

**

He had everything cleaned up and the room aired out by the time Dean came back, looking a bit sad.

"She has a boyfriend," he told Sam, flopping onto his bed.

"Hmm," said Sam, keeping his eyes on his book.

"And a kid."

"Oh," Sam said, looking up. "I'm sorry, dude."

Dean sat up, tugged off his jacket. "Oh well," he said with a sigh. "The good ones are always taken."

Sam's eyebrow quirked. "Since when?"

Dean looked over, half-empty pie pan in hand, a fork slung in his pocket. He shrugged, smiled. "Ya know," he said, "seemed like she and her guy have something special. Don't wanna mess that up, you know?"

"Mmm," Sam said, clamping his teeth together, trying not to laugh. "I hear you."

Dean gave another little sigh and wandered back towards his bed, humming.

Sam hid his face behind his book and grinned from ear to ear. Oh yeah.

This was going to be great.

**  
Dean spent the afternoon lolling around the motel room. He felt heavy, almost lethargic. _Must not have gotten enough sleep_ , he thought as he caught himself nodding off during _Judge Alex_. He knew there was a reason he’d wanted to sleep in.

He stretched out on the bed and messed with the radio for a while, rolling up and down the dial in search of some decent music. He got sucked into a long, sad chorus, something soft and trilly and power chord-y all at once. He leaned his head back and nodded in time to the chick’s mournful wail.

Sam stirred, set down his book. He stared at Dean. Looked like he wanted to say something.

Dean smiled at him, humming. Sam was adorable when he was holding something back. Which was pretty much always.

Sam blinked and smiled broadly, tried to hide it behind a yawn.

 _Aw_ , thought Dean fondly. _He looks a sleepy puppy dog_.

Sam stood up, headed for the bathroom. ”Dude,” he said, “I didn’t know you liked Tori Amos.”

“Hmm?” Dean said, blinking lazily from the bed.

“Never mind,” Sam said, and there was that almost-smile again. Dean grinned, watching the corners of Sam’s lips curve.

“Dean,” Sam said. “DEAN.”

“Hmm?” Dean said again, stretching languorously, feeling the joints in his shoulders pop.

“You hungry? Wanna go get dinner?”

“Sure, sure,” Dean said, smiling. “Whatever you want, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes were dancing. “Ok,” he said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

 _Dinner_ , Dean thought in flash. Maybe that steak place they’d passed on the riverfront. _Yeah, Sammy would like that_. He shot up and scurried to his duffel.

When Sam emerged a few minutes later, Dean was ready for him.

“Uh,” Sam said. “Why are you wearing a tie?”

Dean smiled at him, reached for his suit coat. “Hey,” he said, “just wanted to clean up for ya. That’s all.”

Sam’s mouth twisted, and bit his bottom lip, hard.

 _Hmmmm_ , thought Dean, trying not to stare.

“Uh,” Sam said again. “That’s cool. That’s…nice of you, Dean.”

“Sure, Sammy,” Dean said smoothly, holding the door open. “After you.”

**

They went to some steak place by the river that Dean had picked out, white lights strung over the entrance, a big deck overlooking the water.

“Hey,” said Sam, grinning at Dean over the menu. “This is really nice.”

Dean didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring into Sam’s eyes, his face soft.

“Dean,” Sam said, dropping the menu. “Dude.”

Dean blinked and reached for his water glass. Smiled at Sam over the rim. “Good,” he said, in a voice Sam didn’t recognize, exactly. “I’m glad you like it.”

 _Oh my god_ , Sam thought, feeling giddy. This was getting better and better.

Their waitress came back, cradling a wine bottle. She showed Dean the label and he nodded sagely, _as if he had any idea what the fuck it said_ , Sam thought, swallowing a giggle.

The waitress filled two glasses with thick red wine, set them gently on the table. “Do you two need another minute?” she asked.

“No,” said Dean, snapping his menu shut. “We’ll both have the flank steak, medium rare, and the twice-baked potatoes. And the green salad with vinaigrette to start.”

Sam’s jaw dropped.

“Excellent choice, sir,” the waitress cooed. “I’ll be back in a minute with your salads.”

Sam looked back at Dean. “What was that?”

“What?” Dean said, taking a tentative sip of the wine.

“That. You. Ordering for me. And ordering a salad? You don’t eat vegetables. Unless they’re fried. Or covered in cheese,” Sam said in a rush.

Dean chuckled. He reached out and pushed Sam’s hair back from his face, tucked it behind his ear. “Sure I do, Sammy,” he purred, his eyes dark and full in the moonlight.

Sam didn’t move. _Don’t laugh_ , he told himself. _Don’t laugh_.

Dean sat back, his fingers toying with the stem of his wine glass. He was smiling at Sam again, this weird _deep_ kind of smile that Sam was pretty sure he’d never seen before. He fought the urge to go for his phone, to capture Dean’s expression for posterity. Like Christmas-card-to-Bobby posterity.

Instead, he reached for his glass. The wine was sludgy and hot in the back of his throat. He could feel Dean watching him, could hear the boats out on the water calling to each other in the darkness.

“So, Sam,” said Dean, leaning forward on his elbows. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, plunking his glass between them.

“No,” Dean said, brushing his fingertips over Sam’s wrist. “Really. How are you? I know things must be tough with Lucifer still using your brain as a chew toy. How are you feeling, really?” He looked up, eyelashes fluttering.

 _Holy fuck_ , Sam thought. _This. Is Awesome_. If only he’d thought to bring a tape recorder. Dean was never going to believe him. Or forgive him, probably.

He looked back at Dean, who was staring at him like he was the most interesting person on the planet. Or a really juicy cheeseburger.

 _What the hell_ , Sam thought. If Dean was acting this way with like zero encouragement, Sam could only imagine the embarrassing shit his brother would come up with if Sam just played along for a while.

He caught Dean’s eye and smiled. Dean lit up like a Christmas tree, his eyes green and gold.

 _Perfect_.

So Sam answered his brother’s questions.

All of them.

**

Dean woke up feeling awesome.

He laid there for a while, lingering over the previous evening in his mind. They’d stayed at the restaurant until almost 2, Sam talking, him listening, the bottle moving back and forth between them.

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy.

On the way home, Dean had looked over, seen Sam behind the wheel, his face all lit up by a red traffic light. The planes of his cheekbones were darkened by shadow, his lips sketched roughly in amber. The beauty had hit Dean in the chest, made him feel giddy, like there was something in his gut that felt like helium, like hot air pushing him up into the stratosphere where he could barely breathe.

That feeling had stayed with him for the rest of the drive, and at the door, as Sam fumbled for the room key, Dean had let it carry him away. He’d stretched his hands up and brushed his thumbs along Sam’s face. Sam had been still, his eyes locked on Dean’s. He’d had looked so fragile, right then, so young and open, that it had made Dean’s heart ache. In one stretch, he’d caught Sam’s head in his hands, tilted his body upwards, and brushed his lips over that dark mouth pulled flush by the wine.

“Night, Sam,” he’d said, taking the key.

“Uh,” Sam had said, blushing. “This is my room, too, dude.”

“Oh!” Dean had said, feeling his face fill with heat. “Yeah. Of course is it is.”

Funny, how he’d forgotten that. Must have been the wine.

Now, he smiled fondly over at Sam, who was still sprawled catty-corner in the other bed, sheets trailing onto the floor. Dean got up and tugged the blanket back over Sam’s shoulders, resisted the urge to trail his fingers down Sammy’s back. _No reason to wake him_ , he thought idly, that giddy rush rising in his chest.

He sang Foreigner in the shower and made sure to leave most of the hot water for Sam.

He crept out of the room and walked to Starbucks, got Sam the huge venti vanilla hazelnut thingy he always ordered.

“Hey,” Crystal said, smiling from behind the register. “Nice to see you again.”

He found himself staring at her lip ring as she rang him up, his mouth remembering the feel of Sam’s lips on his. That sharp sting of wine and salt.

“Have a great day,” Crystal chirped.

“Thanks,” he said, his lips suddenly dry.

**

On the way back, Bobby called. “Hey," he said without preamble. "I heard from Father O’Hanlon’s nurse. She think ya should be able to go see him tomorrow.”

“Great,” Dean chirped.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Bobby snapped.

Dean smiled at a dog, waved at a baby.

“Dean?” Bobby said.

“I’m here, Bobby,” Dean said, nodding jovially to the cop on the corner.

“You sound funny.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You kinda sound…happy.”

“Of course I’m happy!” Dean sang. “Why wouldn’t I be? Just Sam and I, hanging out, talking and stuff. What’s not to love?”

There was a pause.

“Who the hell is this?” Bobby growled. “If this is one of those Leviathan bastards, I warn you, if you’ve done anything to—“

“God, Bobby! It’s me! Jesus! What crawled up your ass?” Dean said sweetly, smelling the flowers he’d just bought for Sam.

Bobby seemed soothed by the profanity. “All right, all right, you jackass. But you still sound like you’re high or somethin.’”

“Pffftt,” Dean said. “I’m just havin’ a good day, is all.”

“Fine,” Bobby sighed. “How’s your brother? He recovered from the demon roofies yet?”

Dean’s heart fluttered. “Sam is great,” he gushed. “Have you ever noticed, Bobby, how like kind and thoughtful he is? He’s always lookin’ out for me. Did I tell you he bought me two pies the other day? He is just—“

He thought he heard Bobby snort. But it was probably just static.

“Yeah, yeah, ok,” Bobby said. “You boys be careful. And don’t keep the Father waiting tomorrow, ok? Get over there before noon if you can. He sundowns like a son-of-a-bitch.”

“Ok, Bobby! You have a great day!” Dean trilled, and he definitely heard Bobby laugh this time. Hey, it was great to hear Bobby so happy. He deserved it.

He tilted his face up to the sun, grinning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a beautiful day.

**

Sam was in the shower when he got back, so he set the coffee and flowers on the desk and attacked their laundry. Sam hated sorting clothes; he always managed to let a red shirt go black ops in the whites.

Dean picked up one of Sam’s shirts, the tan flannel, and something made him hold it to his face. Sam’s aftershave clung to the collar. The smell made Dean’s mouth water.

Then Sam wandered out of the bathroom, steam chasing behind him, his hair curling with the heat, and a towel wrapped around his waist.

He saw Dean and froze.

Dean saw him and by god, Sam was the most beautiful goddamn thing he’d ever seen in his life.

Sam recovered first. “Uh, hi,” he stammered. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Uh,” said Dean to the towel.

Sam flushed. “Up here, Dean,” he snapped.

Dean popped his head up, feeling his face burn. “Hi,” he said, a little too brightly. “I brought you some coffee.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “That was nice of you. But I—I think I’ll get dressed first.”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Good idea.”

Sam grabbed his bag and retreated back into the bathroom. Dean just sat there, staring into the space where Sam had been, his heart swelling, his head swimming. In a flash, he saw Sam sitting across from him at dinner the night before, looking out over the river. Saw Sam’s profile draped in red, the traffic light shining in his eyes. Saw Sam, flushed and panting, his chest spread out under Dean’s hands.

He licked his lips and felt his giddiness slide into a higher gear. His mind was doing cartwheels and the room suddenly had this crazy, heady glow.

A minute ago, Sam had been the one Dean wanted to take care of. Worship and protect. Love and honor and idealize. But now—he stood up, swaying, something hot buzzing behind his eyes. Something about Sammy was different. He looked like—Dean felt like he was—

Sam loped out of the bathroom-fully clothed-and made a beeline for the coffee. Noticed the flowers. “Hey, what’re these for?”

“They’re for you, Sammy!” Dean said, feeling a smile stretch slowly across his face.

“Uh,” Sam said. “Thanks...I guess.” His lips were twitching. “That was thoughtful of you, Dean.”

Dean looked into Sam's eyes, beaming, and felt a sharp shock in his gut, like a light bulb firing inside his body. He grabbed the edge of the desk, steadying himself.

Sam stopped mid-slurp. “You ok?”

Dean forced himself to open his eyes. _Can’t worry Sammy_ , he told himself. “Sure, sure, I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said dubiously. He took another pull of his coffee—then stopped, looked at the cup. “Hey,” he said, surprised. “You got three pumps of hazelnut.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, tilting his head, studying the foam clinging to Sam’s mouth. “That’s how you like it.”

“Yeah. But you never remember.”

“Sure I do,” Dean said, watching the weird glow settle around Sammy's shoulders. Dean felt dizzy just looking at him and leaned heavily on his hands, watched Sam’s fingers wrap their way around the cup. Tried not to imagine what they’d feel like pressed against the back of his neck. Realized that Sam was staring at him.

Sam cleared his throat, picked up the flowers. “So,” he said. “What do you wanna do today?”

In a flash, Dean felt Sam’s throat under his mouth, Sam’s fingers digging into his back. He heard Sam moan, his body arching into Dean’s. For a moment, Dean had trouble figuring out which was real: Sam’s tongue between his teeth or the scarred carpet swirling beneath his feet. The desk under his hand or the weight of Sam’s thigh against his cock.

“Um,” he said, teetering.

“Dean?” he heard Sam say. “Dean—!”

Everything got very, very bright for a moment. And then it was dark.

**

Sam paced back and forth beside the bed. Dean was asleep now; he’d stopped moaning and tossing and turning, and the high color in his face had begun to fade. Sam was beside himself. He just knew that this had something to do with the spell: that he’d messed up the incantation or used the wrong ingredients or something, and that his mistake had done whatever this was to Dean. _What was I thinking?_ he wondered. God. If Dean woke up— _when_ Dean woke up—Sam was going to come clean and then they’d figure out how to reverse the spell.

And then Dean could kick his ass.

He thought about calling Bobby, decided he wasn’t that desperate yet. _But_ , he thought grimly, watching Dean’s chest rise and fall, _If he doesn’t wake up soon, I’ll have to._

He fell into the chair he’d dragged between the beds and opened his laptop.

The afternoon dragged on. He ran through the old reliable websites, came up empty, and expanded his search. He found plenty of information on love spells, and lots of warnings about their potential side effects—something he’d paid no attention to before—but none seemed to match Dean’s behavior.

As the sun dropped and the room darkened, Sam started to feel really fucking afraid.

Finally, almost six hours after he’d keeled over, Dean stirred.

“Dean?” Sam said urgently, leaning into his face.

Dean opened his eyes. “Hi, Sammy,” he managed. His voice was heavy and slow, like it was coming from underwater.

Sam pressed a hand to his brother’s forehead, felt the sweat catch under his fingers. “How’re you feeling?” he asked. “You don’t feel like you have a fever anymore.”

“Fever?” Dean repeated thickly.

“Yeah. You were burning up a little while ago.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Burning up.”

Sam squinted at him. “Dean?” he said again.

Dean looked up. “I love you, Sam,” he said, sadly.

“I—“ Sam felt his heart catch. He felt like such a bastard. “I know you do,” he said, touching Dean’s face. “I love you, too.”

“No,” Dean whispered, closing his eyes. “I’m. In love with you.”

Sam sighed and leaned in, tipping the chair with him. Time to bite the bullet. “No, you’re not, Dean,” he said firmly. “That’s the spell talking.”

Dean shifted towards him, his eyes still closed. “Spell?” he repeated, his tongue tangling over the word.

“Yeah,” Sam said with a sigh. “I—put an infatuation spell on you yesterday. I wanted to—god, this sounds so stupid—I wanted to get back at you for being such a dick about all that stuff with Becky.”

There was a long pause.

Then Dean reeled up, the aging bed protesting loudly. “Spell?!” he said again, staring at Sam. He looked drunk: his eyes were heavy, his face still flushed, his mouth full and sloppy. “Spell? On me?”

“Yeah,” Sam said to the floor. “On you.”

“Sam,” Dean said firmly. A command.

He looked up and met Dean’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea it would make you sick.”

Dean did something weird: he gave Sam a slow, lazy grin. “’M not sick, Sammy,” he murmured. “Not sick.” He pulled himself to his knees, brought his head level with Sam’s. “I promise.”

Sam eyed him. “Uh huh,” he said.

“So _not_ sick,” Dean repeated, and kissed him.

Dean’s mouth was hot and soft and he tasted like cherry pie. Sam reached up for him, tried to grab his head, but Dean was like water, his body wheeling and slipping through Sam's grasp. He felt Dean's fingers on his face, felt them scrape over his throat and grab the back of his neck. He rocked back in the chair and Dean followed him, climbing into his lap and pushing, his body clinging to Sam's.

Dean kissed him slowly, keeping his mouth closed as he dragged it over Sam's lips and worked over his jaw. Sam was overwhelmed, his brain a big cloudy mush trying desperately to catch up to what was happening. He tipped back again, trying to shake Dean off, but Dean just pushed harder until the back of the chair lay flush against the other bed.

Dean sat up, balancing on his lap. He kept his hands locked around Sam’s face. Dean's eyes were darker than Sam had ever seen them, the green and gold drowning in a heavy warm brown.

"Sam," Dean said, his voice rumbling against Sam's chest.

"Um," managed Sam. He couldn’t think straight: his mind was burning, reeling, struggling for breath, drowning, Dean heavy in his lap, his ring digging into Sam’s neck, this weird rush of air in his chest that he couldn’t place. He watched Dean's lips curve above him and some part of him stirred, kicked him in the shins, told him no, told him to push Dean away and run, get as far away as he could. _Something about a spell_ , he thought vaguely, but most of him was right there with Dean, full and accounted for in his body, and all the rest of it was noise.

Dean's eyes stayed fixed on his. Waiting.

Sam reached up, caught Dean’s shoulders in his hands, pulled him down. Dean broke into a smile, wide and secret and deep, and Sam let it swallow him whole.

"Oh, Sammy," Dean breathed. "Get the fuck out of this chair."

He untangled himself from Sam's lap and stood up expectantly.

Sam didn't move. His limbs seemed confused about what he wanted them to do.

So Dean reached down and yanked him upright, kicking the chair out of the way and shoving him back on the bed. Sam tumbled over the blanket, his limbs spilling wide.

Dean laughed and slid up over him, settling his weight on Sam's hips. "I thought I was gonna have to draw you a fuckin' map," he murmured, dropping his face down.

"Um," said Sam again, hearing the marbles rattling around in own his head and not really caring anymore. Dean’s face was in his and Sam cracked open, heady and foolish as Dean kissed him again, patiently, so slowly and sweetly that Sam wanted to scream.

So he opened his mouth and caught Dean's lip in his teeth.

**  
When Sammy bit his lip, Dean was done for. He growled and wrapped his tongue around Sam's, dug himself deep into that hot sweet space. He felt Sam's cock nudging his thigh and he let himself drop, spread his body out over Sam's. In a minute they were fused together like glass, his palms pressing Sam's hands against the bed, Sam's hips leaning into his, the whole mess of them threatening to burn straight down to the floor.

Dean was sure that if he let Sammy go he'd sail up and away and never find his way back.

Sam started to struggle under him, tried to pull his hands free. "Dean," he breathed. "Touch you. Let me touch—"

Dean let go of his hands and Sam sat up, panting. He yanked off his shirt and reached for Dean's, pressing his hands against the hot skin beneath. Dean arched up, baring his throat, shivering, but Sam held him fast, buried his mouth against his chest, dragged his tongue under Dean's jaw, kissed him so hard that Dean could feel it peeling through his body, searing into his brain.

Sam growled into his mouth and Dean shook again, his whole body trembling. He felt Sam's hands slide down his back, curl around his hips, and his cock started to ache, started to push against Sam of its own accord. "Sammy," he panted. "Sammy, please, I—"

He felt Sam's mouth curve. "What is it, baby?" he crooned, in a voice Dean had never heard before, exactly. "Tell me what you want."

Dean shuddered. "Please," he moaned, "please, I want—" Sam bit his lip, hard, and Dean couldn't help himself. "Oh fuck, Sam, fuck, suck my cock, please, oh—"

Sam grabbed him, stood up, threw Dean back on the bed, and the look on his face sucked Dean’s breath away, dark and heat and light and Sam all at once. He shoved Dean up towards the pillows with one hand and caught his buckle with the other, pulled his jeans open and wrapped his fingers around Dean's cock.

Dean's hips shot up mindlessly, shoving himself into Sam's hand. His senses snapped into focus and it was only he and Sam, his cock and Sam's fist, and the rest of the world be damned. He arched up, let his pants be tugged down, felt like he would fucking split in two as Sam swallowed his cock and sucked. His head flew back, hit the headboard with a bang, and he slid his fingers into Sam's hair, hanging on for dear life.

Sam kept moaning against his cock and that made it worse, made him harder, faster, and he started shoving himself into Sam's mouth, keening and pleading. "Oh, yeah, Sammy," he groaned. "Yeah—fuck, Sammy—fuck—"

Sam pulled away, narrowed his eyes up at Dean. "Is this what you want?" he purred, nuzzling Dean's cock. "Tell me." He looked up through hooded lashes and Dean arched again, desperate and flushed and so hot that the tears melted as they slid down his cheeks.

"Suck my cock, Sammy, please, I just wanna to come in your mouth and—"

Sam pulled him back in and grabbed Dean's hips, tugging at him, and Dean fucked mindlessly into his mouth, his body a tight hot flame. "Oh, Jesus, Sammy, yeah, like that, oh baby, please, I—fuck!" he screamed, his voice ripped out his throat. "Fuck! Sammy, please, fuck me, I—"

And he came.

**  
Sam felt Dean's body relax under his hands, that coiled tension fall away as his cock fought, twitched, softened in Sam's mouth.

He sat up and opened his fly, let his heavy cock fall into his fingers. He looked down at Dean, who was almost floating off the mattress, eyes hazy and sweet. His cock leapt and he stroked it roughly once, and again, watching Dean come back to himself.

"Sammy," he murmured, reaching for him.

Sam slid up so he could straddle Dean's thighs, still pulling his cock between his fingers, hard, so hard it almost hurt to touch, but—

Dean pressed his hands into Sam’s hips. "Yeah," he said roughly, like he didn't trust the words to come out. "Let me see you. Let me see."

Sam groaned, jerking himself faster, watching Dean’s chest heaving in time to his own pants. "You like this?" he gritted between his teeth, watching Dean between slitted lids. "Tell me, Dean."

Dean slid a hand up and stroked Sam's chest, his fingers leaving burning trails in their wake.

"I like it," Dean said, his voice ragged. "God, Sam, you're so fucking beautiful, baby, and your cock is so—" He choked and Sam bowed his back, pumped his cock towards Dean's face. Could almost feel his mouth fixed tight around the head, he—

Sam bucked again, sweat pouring down his body. He caught a glimpse of Dean's face, his eyes like embers, his mouth dark and open for him.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean managed. "Yeah. Let me see you come, baby, come for me, Sammy, come—"

Sam's cock erupted and his come spilled over his hands, down Dean's chest, caught on Dean's lips.

And, yeah.

Neither of them saw it coming.

**

“Sooooo,” Bobby drawled. “Love spell, huh?”

Sam sighed, pushed his fingers back through his hair. “How’d you know?”

“I talked to your idjit brother this morning and he sounded like he’d swallowed a romance novel,” Bobby said. “He was practically breathin’ puppies and rainbows.”

“Shit,” Sam said, softly.

“Well,” Bobby said, laughter hanging in his voice. “Maybe not the smartest choice you coulda’ made, Sam, but it isn't the end of the world. So to speak.”

Sam looked back at the door to their room, leaned against the outside wall of the motel. Watched the rain bounce around him in the parking lot for a minute. He took a breath.

“It’s just—I took advantage of him, Bobby. I—he—he couldn’t give consent.”

Bobby snorted, brought his chair down so hard Sam could hear the bang. “Listen, when it comes to you, Sam, that boy has never done a damn thing he didn’t want to.”

“What? That doesn’t—”

“Jesus Christ, boy,” Bobby barked. “That jackass went to hell for you, willingly! And he did everything he could to keep your ass outta the pit. You think he’d let you fuck him if he didn’t want it, too?”

Sam turned bright red.

“And it ain’t no use being embarrassed,” Bobby said. “I can hear your virginal blush over the damn phone, Sam. What’s done is done. And besides, love spells don’t work unless the one you’re spellin’ over already has feelings for ya. So you didn’t do anything but turn up the volume on whatever Dean was feeling. Probably why the son-of-a-bitch passed out. It was all too much, too fast, for that boy's feeble brain.”

Sam shook his head. “No, Bobby, that’s bullshit. Becky pulled that same line on me, and—“

“Sam,” said Bobby carefully, like he was talking to a particularly slow German Shepherd. “Becky didn’t put a spell on you. You said she had some demon Spanish fly, right?”

“Uh, yeah, but, I thought—“

“Well ya thought wrong,” Bobby said, and Sam could hear him grinning. “From what you’ve told me, that incantation wouldn’t a worked if Dean hadn’t already—“

“Ok, ok,” Sam said, burying his face in his hands.

There was a pause.

“And, you know, if you hadn’t already been in love with him, then the whole damn thing woulda—“

“What?” Sam barked. "Me? In love with Dean? I don't—"

There was a noise that sounded suspiciously like Bobby holding his hand over the phone while he hooted with laughter.

“Ahem,” Bobby said, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Spell like that kinda depends on both parties already having feelings for each other. You could work a glamour or somethin’, make somebody think that they loved you, for a while, but it ain’t the same thing as a love spell. Ain’t permanent like.”

“And this?” said Sam.

“Up to you,” Bobby said. “You and that other idjit.”

Sam considered this. “Ok,” he said slowly. “Ok. I think I—I can deal with that.”

“You do that,” Bobby grinned. “And if ya need help choosing colors for the reception, I’ll—“

“Bobby,” Sam sighed.

“Ok, ok. Take it easy, Sam. Go easy on Romeo over there, too.”

Sam hung up, tipped his head back, felt the rain on his face.

So.

The door to their room opened and Dean poked his head out, grinning. “So you’re in love with me, huh, Sammy? You wanna fuck me now, baby?”

Sam shook his head, trying not to smile. “Not quite that simple,” he said.

Dean tilted his head, his eyes glittering in the streetlight. “The fuck it’s not,” he said. “Now get in here before I cast a spell on your ass.”

Sam reached for him, raising his eyebrows. “Really? Just my ass? That would be some powerful mojo, Dean.”

“Maybe,” Dean said, tugging him inside, pushing the door behind. “You never know. Now kiss me before I change my mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> “No one discovers a new world without forsaking an old one; and no one discovers a new world who exacts guarantee in advance for what it shall be, or who puts the act of discovery under bonds with respect to what the new world shall do to him when it comes into vision.”  
> ~John Dewey, _Experience and Nature_


End file.
